Tales of Random
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: I am not quite sure what to call these. Some are a bit too long to be drabbles, but others are too short to be official stories. Hm. Something to think about...They are small ideas sort of thrown together, I suppose. Lots of different genres. Enjoy!
1. Brother

I have to apologize if these are not very well-written. Most of them I am writing on the spur of the moment, so I won't be proof-reading them to make them better . Also for this reason, they might end up seeming a little stupid some of the time. I apologize for that, too . I do hope you still enjoy them, though! You may be the judge as to whether they are worth posting or not.

This could be considered to refer to KCS's stories in which Watson returns to war after he and Holmes retire – her stories, at least, are the only places I've read that idea before, but I am unsure if others have written about it too.

Anyway…if you like this tiny little bit, go and read KCS's! And please remember to review!

**Brother**

I loved my brother. This I can say with honesty. I cannot, however, say that he loved me, without it being a straightforward lie.

He hated me. This I know for sure. Not only did he tell me nearly every time we spoke, but he also made it his everyday goal in our childhood to turn my own father against me.

To his delight, it worked.

When I returned from Afghanistan in 1880, I was weak and worn. My eyes ached from all I had seen and experienced, my entire body trembling even when I slept, and my scars and wounded arm and leg were constant painful reminders that renewed those hellish memories. All I wanted was a safe home and a way to forget.

When I limped off of that train, my satchel that carried my few possessions slung over my uninjured shoulder, I looked around myself. My heart was warmed as a young soldier who could not have been much out of adolescent years was greeted with a passionate kiss from his bride-to-be. To my right, a soldier with a missing eye held his newborn son. All around me, parents, wives, children, and all family members embraced their men. Amidst the joyful sobs and tears, I heard words of love and pride from all directions, mixed with words of praise and gratitude to Providence for giving them back their loved ones.

My heart rejoiced for them, but I could not bring myself to smile, for I saw not one of my own family or friends among the crowds.

For nearly half of an hour, I searched the faces, hoping against hope there was someone there for me. But it did not truly surprise me that I found nothing; the entire way home from the war, I had thought of it. I wondered who would come, but I had soon realized that I could think of no one that would take the time to see me return.

And so, after nearly an hour, I had left for the hotel – to celebrate alone my arrival back in England.

Thirty years later, I stood at the same place again, returning home from yet another terrible war. Although this time, I returned miraculously unscathed, it did not prevent the nightmares I had and would continue to have well after I was once again settled.

And, just as before, I saw the younger soldiers take their wives into their arms, saw the fathers embrace their sons, saw the tears and heard the cries…

I found myself searching the faces yet again, praying to see one I recognized, as dreaded tears blurred my vision. Was I really alone again? Did no one wish to welcome me home? Was there no one in all of England that would feel gladness upon my return? Had my brother been correct when he'd said I could never be wanted?

And then, without warning, someone's arms were round me. I did not understand what was happening, or who it was that was embracing me. And then I knew.

I could not see his face. I did not have to. I knew beyond a shadow of doubt whose thin, trembling arms held me.

I had but a moment to return the embrace, before it vanished as quickly as it had come.

But he did not pull away, and rested both of his cold hands on my shoulders. I gripped his forearms with fervor.

"Holmes." My voice cracked and rasped as I stared at him.

His worn, pale face was glowing with a rare intense emotion. A single tear rolled down his cheek from his bright, watery gray eyes. A smile broader than I'd ever seen before sent a wave of joy through me, which gladdened my sad, weary soul and instantly mended my broken heart.

"My dear Watson…" he responded with those three words that I had wanted nothing more than to hear for so long.

At that is then I understood that it is neither flesh nor blood which makes a** brother**, but the bond of something greater and far more powerful.


	2. Elementary

Just a little pointless something I came up with in class today. Not worth any gold stars or anything, but hopefully someone will review???? Please???? 

**Elementary**

"It appears, Watson, I may have misjudged the situation," I called to the man, who was thundering along behind me.

"Oh, really, Holmes?" he yelled back, clearly not at all amused by my dry humor. "And how, pray tell, did you deduce _that_?"

"**Elementary**?" I offered lamely.

Another shot rang out. More shouting voices in the foggy darkness behind us.

"I thank you, O King of Detectives!" He sounded out of breath. "I did – if you recall – try to…tell you that – this would happen!"

"Yes, you did," I admitted, for this was true. "And…it was…"

"**Elementary**!"

"Exactly."

We turned the corner – and ran straight into a brick wall. It was too high for one of us to leap over without assistance, and there was nothing nearby on which to stand that could increase height enough.

Yet another bullet whizzed by my head. I knew either one or both of us would probably die if I did not do something to prevent it. I saw my opportunity to save my dear friend's life, and took it, without a thought on the matter.

"Watson!" cried I, leaning over and cupping my hands, "step here, and jump!"

His eyes grew wide in terror – he could see my idea clearly. He shook his head vehemently.

"I will not leave you, Holmes."

I prayed to heaven his impossible stubbornness would waver, just for this moment, and then he would be to safety.

"Watson, you must!" my voice was desperately pleading, trying to make him see the somewhat logical side. "They will find us within seconds. You must run and find a policeman!"

"What of you, Holmes?" he asked, his eyes filled with endearing concern.

"If you do not go, we both shall surely die, Watson." It was the only truth I could speak.

The footsteps drew closer than ever.

His eyes scanned over my face, as if looking for some sort of reassurance.

"Very well," he agreed quietly.

No sooner had I helped him over the wall than a bullet ricocheted near my left shoulder. They were near me now.

I turned to face my pending death.

Just when the vague forms of the three men and their guns became visible in the smog of the night, there was a loud _crash_, and five huge crates from a loft above the alley tumbled down and landed directly atop them, pinning them underneath! I could hear their muffled shouts of anger and pain, and knew at least one bone apiece was broken.

Watson leapt down in front of me from the loft above.

"Watson…how…?" It is a rare thing that I am speechless.

"You told me to leave you," he stated matter-of-factly. "I did not listen. **Elementary**, my dear Holmes."


	3. I'm a Doctor, Not a Sailor

I've seen so many great stories originate from the "I'm a Doctor, not a…" challenge (which is a brilliant idea – should have thought of it myself!), and when I read them, I loved them all so much that I wanted to join in. Of course, it is not as splendid as most of the others, but it was fun to write.

This story (while originating from a challenge) is a little snippet of a chapter-story I'm thinking about writing sometime. Tell me what you think, please!

**I'm A Doctor, Not A Sailor**

"Really, Holmes!" I growled. "I would do a great deal to assist you, but this is rather ridiculous!"

"It is your own fault you must do this, Watson," answered he with a hint off lingering irritation from earlier that morning. "If you had not so badly blundered, I could do it myself. But alas, you let Lestrade discover my part in this case, and so terminated my involvement."

I felt extreme annoyance building inside me. I had only gone a few doors down to the little shop at the end of Baker Street to get a bit of coffee, and now he was blaming me for his being forced off the case!

"I told you time and again, Holmes," I said, biting back a more colorfully-worded response, "I did nothing of the kind. I did not even know the documents were withheld evidence or I should have hid them before leaving. It is not as if I handed him the papers myself with the precise purpose of throwing you off this case of yours!"

I heard a mumbled reply something along the lines of "You might as well have."

I started to retort quite bluntly, but then decided against it. How many times we had argued in this fashion, and in the end, neither won – product of his conviction that he was fully correct and my knowing that he certainly was not (though I must admit that it could also partially be due to my firm stubbornness for which he constantly shows his bête noir). One of us, at least, should act the grown man.

"Still, Holmes," I said instead, "**I'm a doctor, not a sailor**!"

"But you are a fisherman," he pointed out, the petulance in his eyes fading into a mischievous twinkle.

Well, I was glad he seemed to be recovering from his bad temper. I, on the other hand, was in no mood for his little jests.

"But Holmes, these clothes…" I trailed off, tugging uncomfortably at the dirty, distasteful seaman's garb.

I looked the farthest from a gentleman as is possible, in this tattered, filthy apparel. Unsightly bruises, scars, and inky black stains covered my hands and face – applied previously by an over-eager consulting detective with a little too much stage makeup on hand. I smelled of rotting fish, cigarette smoke, and old beer – all of which left me not daring to think of where Holmes had obtained this costume.

Needless to say, I had received not a few judgmental glances from people we'd passed on the street, and even here, at the docks, I seemed to be the objective for gossiping whispers.

"You shall fit right in as a below-deck hand on the boat, my dear Watson," he informed, though I could hear the impish amusement underlying his tone.

He had done this on purpose, as a form of punishment for me, I knew.

Just then, there was a loud toot from the vessel I was to board.

"And now," stated Sherlock Holmes, "you are to leave, my comrade. I shall await with readiness your return in a few hours."

I sighed, and for an instant, considered restating my offer to do his work for him. But I knew it was really my fault he was unable to do it himself, and so, with a reluctant sigh, I began to make my way towards the boat.

"And, Watson,"

I turned, curious at the sudden change of tone. His face was filled with a rare emotion, his eyes pleading.

"please do be careful," he finished. "I trust you will not have too much difficulty, but please, for my sake…"

"As I said, Holmes," I told him, smiling, for I was touched, "**I am a doctor, not a sailor**. I shall remain cautious; it is my instinct as such."

As always, if I had known what lay in store, I probably would have told him that I was a doctor, not Sherlock Holmes, and so I would not be so foolish as to attempt his insane task.

But that is the beginning of a much longer tale…

So would anyone like to know what happens to the doctor on the boat? Anyone at all???


	4. Time Stood Still

It has become clear to me that it is something of a tradition for any Sherlock/Watson friendship fan to write their own version of The Three Garridebs – at least, that one part we all have read at least a dozen times. ; )

And so here is my humble attempt at maintaining that tradition…

**Time Stood Still**

In the same instant as the bullet sounded, his shoulder fell from where it was pressed reassuringly against mine.

And **time stood still**.

I thought of how many times we had stood exactly like this, when he had been there, protecting my life, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me as he always did.

I thought of what my life would be without that presence beside me.

I thought of all those quiet, gaslit evenings, when we had sat in our respectable places at Baker Street, he in his chair and I in mine.

I thought of returning and finding that chair empty.

I thought of every instant when those war-worn hazel eyes had brightened in wonder, in reaction to one of my obvious deductions.

I thought of never seeing those eyes alight again.

I thought of every amusing moment when he shocked me by rejoining a rude, thoughtless remark from me with an equally sarcastic one – or an undeservingly gentle one. Either usually left me speechless.

I thought of the empty, cold silence that would greet me without him there.

I thought of when he had salvaged my unworthy life that day at Poldhu Cottage in Cornwall…of when he had nursed me to full health after days of starvation when the Culverton Smith case had ended…of when he had fought back-to-back with me against those overwhelming odds in that dark alley near Whitechapel…

So many visions passed through my mind, at such an instantaneous pace to make me physically ill. So many emotions suddenly broke past my careful walls – desperation, rage, agony, loneliness, misery, guilt…

All conspired together, dominating my very being. Redness obscured my vision, until it finally faded and I realized that I was standing over Killer Evans, and blood was trickling down his face.

I wondered if I had done it. I could not recall.

Nor did I care to. My dear friend was lying dead. Why should I care about anything else?

A pain-filled groan reached my ears. Again, my emotions seized control, and I found myself with my arms round him, impelling him unto a nigh chair.

"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"

The words spilled out from my trembling lips unbidden, but I did not attempt at stopping them – I had to know, had to hear him say the words.

"It's nothing, Holmes. It is a mere scratch."

Rather more frantic than I care to admit, I sliced open his tan trousers and saw where the bullet had grazed his knee. That was all – only had it grazed him.

The immense relief that overtook me was stronger than any of the other sensations I had felt in the past minute or so. The stinging in my eyes faded, the knot in my throat that blocked my breathing vanished, and the unconscious trembling in my limbs dissipated.

"You are right," breathed I, "it is quite superficial." Hatred replaced relief as I turned my gaze to the demon who was eyeing me as he began to regain consciousness. "By the Lord, it is as well for you – if you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive."

And I meant it, from my very soul.

Comments? Advice? Bomb threats? Send them in a review!


	5. Afraid

Not overly-sure about this one…but then again, I never am, and people seem to enjoy them – unless you're all just waaaay too nice, which I have an easier time believing :).

Hope you enjoy it! And sorry for the delay – Reality has a horrible habit of barging in on my muse when she's at work.

**Afraid**

I am **afraid**.

It is all around me. I cannot breathe.

I struggle, trying to break the surface, but it is to no avail – I do not even know which direction to move. Everything is black, inky and cold.

_Oh so cold…_

I can feel the iciness suffusing my face, my body…so intense is the cold that it sends a shock of agonising, freezing pain through my every nerve, drawing air from my lungs even quicker.

My eyes burn from the water, my nose stings as I suck it through my nostrils, desperately needing oxygen.

I cannot think. My mind is fading, the blackness replacing it.

I realize too late that I am no longer fighting. I cannot move at all now…only can I float here and wait for my death.

_Watson. Where are you? Please…please help me…_

The doctor is **afraid.**

He pulls his friend's limp body onto the shore.

"Holmes!" he screams, ignoring the fact that he is shaking violently from the freezing Thames water.

"Holmes! Dear God…" It is a prayer, not an oath, as he presses his hands against the thinner man's unmoving chest.

_1,2,3,4,5,6...Breathe!_

But the man does not.

_1,2,3,4,5,6…I will not forgive you for this, if you don't!_

Still he does not move.

Tears now sting his hazel eyes. One last time, he tries…

_1,2,3,4,5,6…_

"I will not lose you again, Holmes!" he says aloud, rage fueling the words – rage toward a heartless Fate that dared to take away the one thing in his life that is worth dying for.

And then the man sucks in a shuddering breath, following by several minutes of violent coughing.

"Thank heaven…" the doctor breathes.

"Watson…" Another cough.

"It's alright, my dear Holmes. You are all right." He helps his friend sit. "What the devil were you thinking, you fool? You could have died, do you understand that?"

"I'm…sorry. Thought…it would…work."

"So you honesty believed that dressing up as an old sailor and confronting the entire crew _alone_ would work?"

"Does not…matter, Watson." Gray eyes flicker up to meet hazel.

Immediately, the anger leaves him.

"Thank you…old friend. Whatever…would I do – without you?"

And neither of them are any longer **afraid**.

Okay…not as good as it probably could have been…but is it presentable? Like, at all? :)


	6. Observations of a Sleepdeprived Doctor

I'm not sure how many people are in possession/have read the short story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle called, "How Watson Learned the Trick," but I know that it's available in _The Complete Sherlock Holmes Volume II_ that I bought at Barnes & Noble this year. I don't think this story is really known well, since it's not at all a mystery and more a little snippet by ACD, but I thought it would be fun to rewrite…so I did :), and also added a little extra to the ending. (Well, whaddya expect? It is me, after all!)

Needless to say, the storyline isn't mine, and some of the sentences are taken directly from the book…so I guess you could say it's a joint effort between me and dear Arthur ;).

Observations of a Sleep-deprived Doctor

John Watson had been watching his dear friend intently ever since they'd both taken their seats at the breakfast table. The look on his face was one Sherlock Holmes immediately recognized as one of a man deep in thought.

After a long moment of trying and failing to ignore the unnerving staring by reading the morning paper, Holmes could stand no more of the curiosity and broke the heavy silence.

"Well, Watson," he asked, "what are you thinking about?"

"About you, Holmes."

"Me? Whatever for?"

"I was just thinking that perhaps these tricks of yours are superficial after all, and that maybe not quite as wonderful as the public believes. In fact, I am sure that if my readers knew how easily obtained your skill is, they would lose interest in the stories altogether."

Holmes stifled a chuckle upon seeing that his friend was quite serious.

"I quite agree," he said, folding the newspaper back and placing it beside his plate on the table. "Actually, I have a recollection that I have myself made a similar remark more than once in these past years."

"Yes, I remember," stated Watson dryly. He seemed to be in an uncharacteristically cross and pessimistic mood this morning, for it was unlike him to make such a statement over Holmes' ability; his usual views on his friend's talents were always ones of awe and admiration, never before had he agreed with Holmes that his powers were commonplace and ordinary.

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he'd had little sleep the night before, due to a certain amateur detective and a midnight stake-out in the East End that had taken a bit more energy than Holmes had planned for…

Knowing this lack of slumber, coupled with the new bruises evident on the doctor's cheekbone and scrapes on his knuckles, was most likely the fuel for his friend's comments, Holmes simply sat back in his chair, with his elbows propped on the back of it, and rested his left ankle over his right with a half-grin of amusement.

"Your methods," continued Watson severely, "are not so extraordinary as I have always thought, really."

Fighting back a snort of laughter, Holmes' grin grew wider. "I have no doubts that you are correct, my dear doctor."

"Neither do I."

Both were quiet for a moment, Watson glaring moodily at his untouched breakfast and Holmes stirring his coffee. And then an idea for a bit of fun hit the detective – it was unbelievably cruel a joke, but then again, Watson's remarks were practically begging for harsh teasing.

And after all, the doctor was the one who'd insisted on coming along the night before, even when Holmes had requested his staying at Baker Street; the detective had foreseen what affect the sleep deprivation would do to his friend, but Watson was adamant. It was his own fault, so why not have a little fun with it?

"Watson," said he presently, "perhaps you would yourself give an example of 'how easily obtained' my methods really are?"

Watson's eyes flickered up from his coffee, brightened with irritation at Holmes' obvious skepticism.

"With pleasure," he replied, replacing the cup onto the table. "From observing you now, I am able to say that you were greatly preoccupied when you got up this morning."

"Excellent!" gasped Holmes in mock wonder, though the doctor could not tell that it was false. "Please tell me, Watson, how you could possibly know that."

"Because you rarely leave your room in the morning, even to come to breakfast, without being fully dressed and ready. And yet, this morning you have neglected to shave first."

"Dear me! How very clever! I had no idea, Watson, that you were so apt a pupil."

"And I also deduced that you have a client named Barlow, and that you have not been successful so far in his case."

"Good heavens, how could you know that?"

"I saw the name outside of that envelope." He motioned toward Holmes' coat, where a white letter was sticking out of the pocket. "When you opened it a few minutes ago, you gave a groan and thrust it into your pocket with a frown on your face." His expression grew even darker. "And if the little 'adventure' last night was any example of the rest of the case, I know it must not be going very well at all."

Holmes chuckled a bit at Watson's obvious displeasure, but then urged him to continue; this was the most entertainment he'd had all week.

"Admirable! You are indeed very observant. Has your eagle eye detected anything more?"

"I fear, Holmes, that you have taken to financial speculation."

"How _could_ you tell that, Watson?"

"You opened the paper just now, turned to the financial page, and gave a loud exclamation of interest."

"Well, that is so very clever of you, Watson! Anything more?"

"You are expecting some important visitor, because you have on your black coat instead of your dressing gown. Since I know you would not adorn so fashionable an attire for just my company, you obviously are awaiting the immediate arrival of someone business-related – your client or someone of that nature."

Holmes' eyes danced with the laughter he was holding in. "Is that all, my dear fellow?"

"I have no doubt that I could find other points if I pleased, but I shall only give these few, for the sake of proving to you that there are others who can be so clever as you are."

"And some not so clever, I'm afraid."

"What do you mean, Holmes?"

"Well, my dear fellow," he allowed his amusement to show now, "I fear your deductions have not been so happy as I should have wished."

"You mean I was mistaken."

"Just a little, my dear doctor, just a little," he choked out between chortles. "Let us take the points in their order: I did not shave because I have sent my razor to be sharpened. I put on my coat because I unfortunately have an early meeting with my dentist. His name is Barlow, and the letter was to confirm the terrible appointment. The listings of orchestras playing in London this weekend is just beside the financial page, and I was happy to see that one of my favorites is performing this weekend." He barked out laughter at the doctor's blank expression. "Oh, but do go on, my dear Watson! It is, as you said, a superficial trick, and I have no doubts that you will soon acquire it."

But when there was no verbal response, only the doctor's exasperated moan and his pressing his palms over his eyes, Holmes' childish giggling ceased. Had he gone too far this time? Was the good doctor really hurt or embarrassed over his jests? He hadn't meant any harm, honestly. Watson was indeed one of the smartest he'd ever met (faring much better than any blasted Yarder, certainly!), and his normally sharp mind was a bit dulled from the exertions of the previous few days – between the late hours of caring for victims of a sudden epidemic of a nasty virus and the excitement of Holmes' newest case, it was a wonder that he had not keeled over by now.

"Watson?" he asked, making his voice softer and leaning forward a bit. "I am sorry if I have offended you – I was only teasing, old man; don't take it to heart, please."

It was then that he noticed the man was quivering, his broad shoulders trembling with some strong emotion, his palms rubbing against his eyes._ Surely not…!_

But a moment later, Holmes' disbelieving panic was washed away and replaced with another shock.

Watson moved his hands away from his face, and Holmes saw that contagious grin had made a hysterical reappearance, that his previously somewhat pale face was flushed with color, and that his eyes were gleaming with that usual spark and also with hilarious tears. And as a hiccupping gasp of laughter erupted from his friend, Holmes could not help the wide grin that spread over his face.

And almost ten minutes later, when she entered the shared sitting room to gather the dishes, Mrs. Hudson found both her tenants doubled over the breakfast table, caught up in violent peals of hysterics, which only erupted again every time their glee-filled eyes met.

Without even uttering a word, Martha Hudson lifted the tray of mostly-uneaten breakfast and left the sitting room, wondering why on earth neither of them had been committed to an asylum yet.


	7. Part 1, Dinner at Simpson's

So I was sitting at lunch today and one very young member of my unofficial storytelling club looks at me through big hazel eyes and says innocently, "Wouldn't it be funny if Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes were trying to eat supper and the bad guys kept busting in?" I was greatly inspired by that adorable little rascal of an eight-year-old, and so the credit of this short story must go to the both of us. :)

Oh, and I'm not sure if there is or ever was an actual restaurant called Simpson's (I've never been to London in the 19th century, unfortunately) so I am completely basing the décor, layout, and expense of the place from my own imaginings. Partly because it'll be much more fun for me to be able to create the scene according to the story, and partly because I'm too lazy for research.

Send me a review and I'll send you your very own Sherlock Holmes…Ha! Don't we all wish??? But please review anyway! :)

**Dinner at Simpson's**

**Part I**

In the little while that I had known Sherlock Holmes, I had already concluded that, apart from the times when he lazed about in a fit of black depression, there was not a day that went by that he did not indulge in some form of excitement – excitement that was, more often than not, usually life-threatening.

Even with that knowledge, I had hoped and prayed that our evening together would be uninterrupted.

Obviously, this was not to be.

Oh, the operetta went about fine – though when it neared the ending and the actors portraying Sir Demetrius and Lady Alexandria played out the beautifully done reunion scene, my friend's dramatic, bored sighs were telling me (as they were obviously meant to) that he would be very pleased when the curtain fell for the final time. From the way he shot from his chair when it did, I knew he was quite anxious to extract himself from the crowd of tearful ladies dabbing at their eyes with their handkerchiefs and the soft-eyed men with their arms around their wives.

Though I did twit him mercilessly the entire walk to Simpson's, I must say that I did pity him; such emotional displays were not at all a part of my friend's life, and he never failed to behave awkwardly when in the presence of anyone having such an outburst, even actors on a stage.

"All right, now, Watson," said he impatiently as he held open the door of our favourite restaurant, "please try to remember that we are in a formal dining place. I beg of you to behave accordingly."

I did cease my pestering jests, though I did continue to grin, a fact that did not escape my friend's keen eye, I am certain.

Once we were settled at our table near to the fireplace and positioned in a private corner, the one we had occupied on our first visit and continued to every time thereafter, the waiter – a very fashionable and well-educated German called Achim – took our orders.

Upon his bowing and disappearing through the kitchen door, I turned to Holmes to ask him something (I do not recall exactly what), only to find that expression on his face that I knew all too well as the one he only adorned when in the midst of calculating some puzzle – the unfocused silvery orbs, the slightly wrinkled brow, the set jaw, the nervous tapping of his long, graceful fingers were all evidence of it.

"Holmes," I sighed, "what _are_ you doing?"

"Hush, Watson."

"Not until you answer my question."

"Since you insist, I am thinking."

"So I see." My voice portrayed my sarcasm quite nicely.

"Well if you saw, why did you ask, Watson?" No return sarcasm, just absent curiosity – his thoughts were much too deep for a true argument.

I leaned back, crossed my arms over my chest, and said satisfyingly sternly, "Stop it, Holmes."

"What?" His silvery eyes flashed to mine as my words registered. "Why?"

"Because every time you _think_, the result is always the same."

"Oh, really? And what might that be?"

"This." I motioned toward the still painfully present dark purple bruising on my left cheek in the shape of a set of knuckles – the one that had so needlessly and ridiculously been inflicted.

He laughed aloud, as I presumed he would, and said in mock defense, "Well it was your own fault, Watson! You should, after all, know better by now than to sneak up on me in such a way as you did."

"I did not sneak up on you," I told him for the umpteenth time, though I knew it was useless to argue. "If you had not been so deeply unaware in your own little dream-world, you would have heard my calling your name. It was when you did not answer that I tapped you on the arm."

"I was thinking!"

"I rest my case, Holmes."

Again, he laughed aloud, dismissing my complaints with a wave of his bony hand.

Although I pretended otherwise for the sake of fun, I truly was pleased to see him in such high spirits. Since our last case, one of the earlier we'd taken on together, had ended a week previous, I had fully expected him to lapse into one of his black moods. But as of yet, he did not seem to be at all bored; on the contrary, he had actually very gaily suggested tonight's little outing, thoroughly surprising me with two purchased tickets and an invitation to **dinner at Simpson's**.

A few minutes later, Achim brought out our meals.

"Enjoy your meals, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson," said he in his heavy German accent.

I smiled; he really was one of the best waiters on the island, I knew. This was why both Holmes and I always insisted that he be the one to serve us, whenever we went. He knew us both quite well now, and always had a smile special for us.

As I watched Achim make his way back through the maze of tables to the kitchen, I noticed Holmes was once again _thinking_. This time I followed his gaze to a white-haired, bearded man with a large frame sitting against the wall on the opposite end of the room. His flesh was quite pale in contrast with his black coat and bowler, and he smoked incessantly on a thick cigar. He was alone, and watched the laughing strangers at a table nearest to him through beady, glimmering eyes.

I cleared my throat, loudly.

"Do not fret, Watson," said he, chuckling as he turned back to our meals. "I am certain my curious thoughts shall not bring about any unhappy outcome this time."

If I'd only known how so very wrong he was, I would surely have insisted we left right at that moment for Baker Street without a second glance at that death trap of a restaurant.

TBC…How is it so far, my fellow Sherockians? :)


	8. Author's Note

**From Rin:**

**The "Dinner at Simpson's" story has not been forgotten, I promise you! It is only that I must publish it as a separate story…my muse insists that it take on a life of its own and made it much, much longer than I planned for!**

**Look for it as a new published work soon!**

**Love,**

**Rin**


	9. Zany Things at 221B

In honor of two other celebrated detectives of London! ;)

**Zany Things at 221B**

**Part I**

Sherlock Holmes was logical. If it did not belong in the factual world, it did not belong in his brain-attic. If it could not be thought out, deduced, or analyzed to an exact science, it was not a part of his life.

Little did he know that the very thing he had always denied access into his "attic" had been living in his basement all along…

----------------------------------------

Dr. John Watson sat at his desk, scribbling aimlessly of the **zany things at 221B** that had occurred in the day, when there was a sudden slamming of the front door, followed by the loud stomping of footsteps upon the seventeen stairs.

With a wary sigh, he shut the journal and braced himself for the inevitable.

"It is a disgrace, Watson!" bellowed Sherlock Holmes with a violent energy as he burst into their shared sitting room.

"What is, Holmes?" questioned Watson with honest curiosity. "I thought you went to examine the evidence at the Yard."

"As did I!" he replied, tossing his coat onto the hat stand by the door and removing his hat. "Lestrade took me into his office where he claimed he had ensured its safety, and lo and behold, it was nowhere to be found!"

"Someone took it then?"

"Precisely!"

"And you could not discern who?"

"Whoever it was, was a master thief, Watson! The most detailed analysis brought about no clues whatsoever! I haven't the slightest imagining of what I shall do without that button!"

"A button, you say?"

"Yes, yes, Watson; do try to keep up! What on earth are you snickering about?"

Watson was shaking his head, his shoulders shaking as he chuckled.

"Watson?"

"Holmes," he giggled in quite an undignified fashion, "I would advise that you wouldn't worry too much about it."

"You know where it is, then?"

"Indeed I do."

"Then tell me, man! Out with it, Watson!"

"It's in the basement."

Holmes gaped. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said that it is in the basement."

Holmes glowered. "Really, Watson, this is no time for silly jokes. Do you or do you not know where the button is?"

"I do. I told you; it's in the basement."

"Oh, if you're going to act such a fool, I'm going out! Don't wait up for me!" Holmes growled in uncontrolled frustration, spinning on his heel and thundering toward the door.

"Really, sir, is that any way to treat a friend?" squeaked a voice from the mantle.

Holmes turned. And froze.

_Was that mouse wearing a __**coat**__?_

----------------------------

TBC…_Indeed, Mr. Holmes, he is! haha_


	10. Zany Things at 221b, Part II

_Does anyone besides me now want a pet mouse named Basil wearing a deerstalker???_

**Zany Things at 221B**

**Part II**

"What…?"

"I tried to tell you, Holmes," murmured Watson as he fought of a bout of hysterics at seeing his friend's expression.

Holmes did not acknowledge him, as he stared wide-eyed at the thin, brown mouse sitting next to the candlestick. It looked almost as if the small animal was…_grinning_…?

"There is no reason to react so, Mr. Holmes," said another, soothing voice, and a second, more round mouse (also wearing a coat) scrambled clumsily up next to the first. "Everything is perfectly all right. We've got the button; you may certainly have it when we are through analysing it. 'T won't be long, I assure you."

"Watson…"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"I am begging of you - please tell me you also see the talking rats."

"_Rats_? I beg to differ, sir!" hissed the first with more force than it seemed his small body could contain, as he leapt to his feet. "My associate and I are most certainly _not_ rats! And we will not be named among such vile, nasty little creatures of the sewers!"

Holmes blanched and stumbled backwards.

Watson mercifully took pity on his friend, and stepped over to his side, gently grabbing his elbow to steady him.

"It's all right, old fellow," he murmured. "You're not mad, I assure you. Yes, these good mice did speak. Basil was the thief who took the button from Scotland Yard."

"A…mouse? Named Basil?"

"That is more like it, Mr. Holmes," grumbled the first. "Yes, I am Sherrington Basil. I must say, despite your lapse just now, it is a keen honour to finally make your acquaintance - other than from a peeping crack in the wall, that is."

"And I am Doctor David Dawson," said the second, rounder one with a…mustache?!

"We are, like yourself and the good Dr. Watson, consulting detectives," stated Basil with some amount of pride. "As it came about, my client and yours represent the same case. I do apologise for any inconvenience I may have caused you by my removal of the button from Inspector Lestrade's desk, but you of all people must know how important my work is to me."

Sherlock Holmes took a breath, quickly resolved to move past the fact that he was speaking to a _mouse_ (if he ever could, that is), and said slowly, "You and your…er, associate are on the same case as the doctor and myself."

The two small heads nodded.

"So then you have the button in your possession?"

"That is correct," replied Basil. "It was not quite all that difficult to swipe it from the Yard, especially given that matters of this type are among my area of expertise. Much like yourself, I presume."

"Well…I…"

"It is now in a secret place in our rooms, sir," said Dawson rather quietly. "We shall be more than happy to place it in your capable hands before the night is over."

"Thank you, friends," said Watson warmly. "I trust you shall have your affair concluded quite soon."

"Within thirty-seven hours, I daresay, Dr. Watson," replied Basil with an air of egotistic self-assurance.

"Very good. Thank you for letting us know about the button."

Holmes blinked, trying to ignore the alarming fact that his friend -_ a doctor!_ - was having a decent, pleasant conversation with a mouse wearing a tan-coloured coat.

"You're quite welcome, Doctor," said Basil brusquely. "Come, Dawson, we have quite a bit of work to do if we are to catch that silver-striped cat burglar before midnight on the morrow. Goodnight, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh! Uh, goodnight!" gasped out Dawson before his companion yanked him through a small hole in the wall under the painting of Reichenbach Falls.

"There are some rather **zany things at 221B**, wouldn't you agree, Holmes?" Watson chuckled.

"Holmes?" murmured Watson after a moment when the man made no movement. "Are you all right?"

Holmes turned his head, expressions of anger, bewilderment, shock, worry, and amusement playing out on his pale face. In an instant, each expression had melted away and the calm, calculating mask returned once again.

He spoke in his mildly curious, controlled voice,

"You know, Watson, there is something oddly familiar about those two; I cannot fathom what it could be."

---------------------------

_If anyone responds positively, and an idea strikes sometime, I just might bring our dear Basil and Dawson back into the picture. What do you think? I'll take whatever you have to say. :)_

_I just wanted to let everyone know also, that while I still have a few ideas for Tales of Random,_

_I ALSO TAKE REQUESTS. IF ANYONE HAS ANY TO OFFER ME AT ANY TIME, I'LL SURELY WORK HARD TO FULFILL IT TO THE BEST OF MY ABILITY (weak as that may be). ;)_


	11. My Boswell

_Forgive me for my lapse!!!! Computer troubles…sigh…I'm now back on the air, though ------ is anyone going to send me flowers? A "welcome back"? Anything? No? Oh, well…_

_I know the 221b challenge is somewhere around a year old, but I still thought this would be good practice for me. I hope ya'll like it. And remember to review! ;)_

**My Boswell**

_It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write…_

…_that even which has created a void in my life which the lapse of two years has done little to fill._

…_him whom I shall forever regard as the best and wisest man I have ever known. __*_

I shut the monthly and rest my chin on my clasped fists, those words echoing relentlessly throughout my overwrought mind, burning painfully into my memory.

With a deep sigh, my gaze flickers to a small stack of papers lying nearby. Letters, all unfinished and unsent. How I wish I could send them! I do not, for the consequences I know should follow: the placing again of my dearest friend in harm's way.

Instead I sit here in this shadowed room that is so void and alien, so eerily silent. I could before endure the silence, for I knew that it was soon to be broken.

This time it will not be broken. That knowledge is nigh overwhelming.

The sun is setting. The world its golden, fiery glow envelopes is not the same as the one I saw yesterday this hour, nor was yesterday's the same as the day previous.

I am a drifter, wandering directionless and alone.

And this I know for certain: I am lost without **my Boswell**.

_*I'm sure everyone knows, but these lines are from Dr. Watson's sad account of The Final Problem._


	12. War

_Ever since I wrote The Photograph, I've been thinking about Watson in the RAMC, and this came to me at lunch today. It's a snippet of a conflict that may have occurred at any time…_

War

Bullets ricochet around me as I dive behind the nearest barrier for protection.

Cautiously, I peek around and aim my own revolver, thoroughly relieved when I hear the weapon drop as my victim grabs his leg, howling in pain.

A fellow soldier nearby nods at me and pops off two shots, sending one fore to his knees and another sprawling. He does not make it out of the way, however, and one of the askew bullets catches his shoulder, sending him reeling backwards.

I make a desperate lung for him, every fibre of my being shouting at me to do my duty here.

I catch the young soldier in my arms and lay him gently down, as he groans painfully and gasps, "Doctor…"

_Maiwand was war…_

I fumble for a handkerchief and press it solidly against the bleeding shoulder, marveling at how brave this young combatant is, to risk his life for his country so unhesitatingly.

More bullets sound from all directions…ferocious shouts in a language I do not comprehend…the feel of a young hero's warm blood on my fingers…the heat of the evening sun upon my perspiring neck…

"Behind you, Doctor!" shouts the young man frantically, his voice hoarse with his suffering.

I turn scarcely in time to react; I do not even think before, in one blindingly swift movement, I have grabbed my service revolver and sent the oncoming adversary collapsing in a heap.

…_but then…_

There does not seem to be any more approaching us at this moment, but there soon will be - no one is safe in this battle for any great period of time, this I have brutally learnt.

I turn again to my fallen comrade, who watches me with worn, childlike eyes as I wrap his shoulder in a makeshift bandage…it will have to do until cleaner linens can be found…

Vaguely, I think of what a young man he is, scarcely twenty-five…surely he must be so very afraid…

"Watson," my comrade-in-arms says in a clear, eager voice, "we must get to the Yard and inform Lestrade of these substantial new developments!"

…_I moved to Baker Street._

THE END

* * *

_Be sure to read the lines in italics as a full thought, or you might miss a bit of it._

_Well, whatcha think? Did I fool you at all? At least for a bit? It's kinda hard to tell if it's convincing or not, when you're editing it and you already know the punch line…hope someone likes it okay…*crosses fingers nervously*_

_BTW…for any one interested, I posted a drabble story and Lonan Hoyt and Adam Wilson's profiles on FictionPress, under the Penname .Adahara Adler. (don't forget the periods). Not sure if there's anything I should add to the descriptions, and I still need a solid plot for the first official chapter story…any suggestions from my trusted Holmesians would be awesome…:D_


	13. Fever, Part 1

_For Mam'zelleCombeferre, who "hinted" awhile back at a sick fic. My most heartfelt thanks to you for your support and friendship! You're so encouraging to me!! :D_

_Hope it's what you wanted, but if not, don't be afraid to say so and I'll gladly do another…I never get tired of writing Sherlock Holmes! *grin*_

_BTW, Zelle…Lonan and Adam say hello. I'm peculiar, I know. *wink*_

**Fever**

**Part One**

I fell back into my chair as I tried to rise from my desk, wincing as it jarred my horribly aching head.

As I waited for the room to cease its spinning, I rested my clammy forehead in my hand.

With a sigh, I realized that I should have to tell Holmes that I could not go with him on his latest case to Sussex. Even if it was uneventful and lacked danger (such things rarely are and do with Sherlock Holmes), I still would not be able to stay vertical long enough to make it down the seventeen steps to the cab, much less all the way to Sussex and feel well to assist in the solving of a case.

He would not be pleased, of this I was certain. For three days, he'd been planning this journey, and now this dreadful virus would be the undoing of it - at least, as far as my involvement was concerned.

Just as my abnormally slow brain was trying to formulate a way to break the news without wounding his feelings, the door to our shared sitting room swung open and in burst the detective himself.

"I say, Watson," he said in his booming tone that was, at present, saturated with feverish energy, "we must hurry if we are to catch the train to-night! I have the details of our case here" - he tossed a file of papers onto the settee - "and so we shall undoubtedly have all the information we need. Well, come along, my dear fellow! The train leaves in exactly twenty-three minutes and twelve seconds, according to the mantle clock. Judging the distance and speed of the hansom, we should be there in just enough time. Good heavens, man - haven't you even brought your bags down yet?"

He strode into his room to retrieve his own luggage.

"You know, Holmes," said I with some crossness as he tossed a large, quite heavy suitcase aimlessly into the sitting room, wincing at the pain it caused my head when it collided with the floor, "perhaps if you'd been back before now we would have been able to catch an earlier train, or at least not have to rush for this one."

"I needed to meet with the client to get the particulars of the case, Watson," he responded matter-of-factly, his mood too pleasant for him to truly get annoyed at my comment.

I merely sighed, too exhaustedly ill to reply, and shut my eyes against my palm, irritated when my hand began trembling.

When Holmes reentered the room, I heard rather than saw him as he cried, "Watson! You're not even dressed yet!"

"Holmes, I…"

"I told you the time by which you were supposed to be prepared!"

"Holmes, I didn't…:"

"Why the blazes are you still sitting at your desk? We haven't time for delay!"

"Holmes, I am not going!" I shouted, lurching from the chair in an effort to break through his tirade.

My swift rise from my seat, however, was apparently not my grandest plan, for I then had to grope for the desk as a wave of dizziness assaulted me; without warning, I felt my knees suddenly buckle, and when the gray fog at last faded, I found myself sitting in my chair by the fire, staring up into two excited, gray orbs.

"Watson! For heaven's sake, man, answer me!"

"Holmes," I groaned, shutting my eyes against the pain, "please do stop shouting. My head is pounding enough already, without your encouraging it."

He sighed, his tensed, thin shoulders relaxing. When he spoke again, his voice was the cool, hard monotone of usual: "Good Lord, Watson. I can feel the heat radiating off of you. Why did you not tell me you were unwell?"

"Perhaps I would have, if you had let me get a word in edgewise," I told him only half-seriously, irritated at the scratchy hoarseness in my throat.

He winced. "I'm dreadfully sorry, old fellow. Had I realized…"

"You're forgiven, old friend," I smiled shakily at him.

"What is your diagnosis, Doctor?" In one swift movement, he had pulled the afghan from the back of the settee and spread it over me lightly.

"It is the virus I have been treating for a week now, I'm sure," I answered through a sigh as I rubbed my eyes - the talking was making my head ache worse. "I knew I was bound to get it eventually. I thought that if I took a bit of medicine I might be able to accompany you to Sussex, but I don't feel it is possible. I'm terribly sorry, old fellow," I added sincerely, turning my head to meet his eyes.

I truly was, for I knew if I did not accompany him, he would be forced to take the train alone. Sherlock Holmes detests being away from his familiar environment, kept from his books and his chemicals. I always wish to escort him when a case took him abroad, for I knew my presence could be at least a small bit of cheer until his return to Baker Street.

He sighed deeply. "It is a most inopportune predicament," he agreed solemnly, then he gave me a small, kind smile. "Nonetheless, I shall manage, if I must. How high is your temperature, Watson? You look quite flushed, I must say."

"I'm not sure," I admitted, shifting uncomfortably as a wave of vertigo suddenly washed over me.

Holmes' brow furrowed as a shameful groan escaped my lips. The tips of his cool fingers suddenly appeared on my forehead and I heard him suck in a sharp breath.

"Watson, you are quite ill."

"Striking…bit of deduction, Holmes," I murmured weakly, a chill going through me mid-sentence.

I did not even realize Holmes had moved to fetch my medical bag until I felt him place the thermometer beneath my tongue. (1)

"102, Watson," he murmured gravely. "I may not be a medical man such as yourself, but I do not believe that is a good sign at all."

"There is no danger," I mumbled, "until it reaches 105, at the least, Holmes."

At that moment, the mantle clock announced with three tolls the arrival of a new hour.

I started with alarm. "Holmes, you must hurry or you'll miss the train!" I had barely spoken aloud the entire sentence before a sudden fit of deep, painful coughing erupted from my chest, startling even myself.

"Easy, Watson," he soothed, pushing my shoulders back against the cushioned chair. "Are you certain you'll be all right alone? With Mrs. Hudson gone to visit relatives…"

"I shall be fine, Holmes," I answered. In truth I felt quite loathing of the next two to three days of illness spent alone, but I was in no way willing to request his staying. This was firstly for his own good; he would be quite miserable over the giving up of a case to remain with a sick man. It was also for mine, however, for I knew the disappointment was sure to bring about a depression and I would surely not be able to bear a fortnight or longer of Black Fit, illness or no illness.

"Are you certain?" he pressed doubtfully as he rose to his feet.

I nodded reassuringly, immediately regretting it when my entire skull protested loudly. "Go on, old man. Enjoy your puzzles and mind games. I shall be all right for a few days."

He inhaled a deep breath and his voice returned to its previous briskness, "Very well, then. Goodbye, my dear friend, and I shall see you in exactly two and a half days, if I have calculated this case correctly. I hope that by then you are back to yourself, my dear Watson."

"I'm confident I will be, Holmes," I answered, my voice barely managing croak out the words.

He lifted his bags and just one short moment later, I heard him hailing a cab from the street.

Wearily, I settled back, nestling beneath the afghan, and tried to rest despite the aching of every muscle.

**TBC…**

* * *

_I know, it's not _Simple Gifts_, *grin*, but did anyone like the first part? More to come soon!_

(1) That is how they did it back then, too, right?? That's probably a silly question, but I just want to be sure. :)


	14. Fever, Part 2

_Good heavens...I do not even want to_ think_ about how long I have neglected this story! Would you believe that both this chapter and the following have been written since December 10th, 2009, and I have only gotten around to editing this one today? It's positively shameful, it is. Lestrade should arrest me for my appalling crime against the writers race!  
In light of that, I don't think anyone even remembers or cares what's happened to Doc Watson anymore, but all the same, I thought it only fair he _finally_ get on his way to recovery. *glances nervously at an unhappy Holmes, who has an enormous pile of cases that have been piling up for six months*  
If you do happen to still hold an interest, I hope you enjoy!_

**Fever  
****Part Two**

For the third time within the hour, I jolted awake as I was nearing the peaceful haven of sleep, and the frustration and illness combined brought a pathetic whimper I should never had allowed another soul to hear.

It had been only an hour, and I was wanting nothing less than to slumber deeply and awaken afresh and well. However, the sleep refused to come, no matter how badly I wished it. My body alternated between hot and cold, making me throw the afghan back one minute in a vain effort to cool down, and shiver as I groped for it again the next. Every limb ached almost as badly as my pounding head, making me wary and unwilling to move the slightest bit from my uncomfortable position on the sette, though I would have much preferred my own mattress. The cool cloth I had placed against my burning forehead had long-since dried out, and I could feel that I was teetering on the edge of lucidness and fever-induced delirium. The spasmodic, barking, painful coughs culminated with it all to prevent any more than a wink at a time of rest.

Given all the symptoms above, however, the thing that annoyed me the most was the fact that I was unable to accompany Holmes on his case. I had wanted nothing more than to assist him on the affair of the missing bride-to-be, and my own disappointment equaled or surpassed his own, I am sure. What a day to attract a dreadful virus from a patient!

As I laid there in the shadowed sitting room (the gaslights were much too far away to attempt reaching), I very nearly wished I had agreed to Holmes' offer to stay. If the remaining sick days were to be as this past hour — and I had every miserable expectation that they would indeed — I had the feeling I would be in a darker mood than one of Holmes' black fits by the time he returned.

As I mulled this over in my mind and once again tried forcing my weary body to submit to the sleep it so desperately needed, the distant sound of the front door faintly closing from down the seventeen steps brought me to full awareness.

Footsteps were creaking up the staircase.

My breath caught in my throat. There were but three people who owned keys to the house, those being Mrs. Hudson, Holmes, and myself. The former two had been gone for over an hour, and Holmes had never once failed to lock the door when he departed, for whatever reason. That left but one possibility: an intruder.

I have lost count of the number of them Holmes and I have encountered over the many years of our agency. Over half the time, the moment they realize they have been discovered, they run, panicked, and we simply call Lestrade to make necessary arrests. Other times, if need be, we manage between the two of us to overtake them, or even I alone if Holmes is not present. Between us, we have taken down as many as seven men at once. I was not able to do it alone; how on earth could I take down even one man, if I myself could scarcely stand?

Panic rose in my chest as the footsteps stopped just in front of the sitting room door. The knob turned and the door swung silently open.

It took me one long moment in the dimness to recognize the familiar thin, sharp silhouette.

"Holmes?" I croaked, as my body went limp with relief.

"I apologize, Watson," said he matter-of-factly as he soundlessly closed the door behind him. "I had no intention of waking you."

"You didn't, Holmes," I answered, dumbfounded at his unexpected reappearance. "But" — I coughed once — "what on earth are you still doing here? I thought you'd left over an hour ago."

"I did, my good man," he answered as he strode over to where I lay. "I went first to the food market. It took me longer than I planned to find the ingredients of that soup Mrs. Hudson practically forced down my throat when I got a little cold about a month ago."

I chuckled a bit at the memory. The expression on Holmes' pale face as Mrs. Hudson all but spoon-fed him her special soup is one that I shan't ever forget; nor is the expression she bore when he at first refused it — even Holmes had been too unsettled to forbid her a second time.

"I then consulted Dr. Anstruther, and he kindly instructed me as to what I should do to chase away your ailment all the sooner." He illustratively held up a bottle of dark-coloured tonic.

"But…Holmes…" I choked on yet another annoying cough.

"My dear Watson," he murmured masterfully, lifting a hand to silence me, "I would much appreciate it if you did not try to speak until you are able to complete a full sentence, there's a good man."

I smiled faintly at him, amused by his self-proclaimed authority over the situation despite the fact that I am the doctor of the household.

He gave a curt nod of apparent satisfaction to himself and disappeared into his room, returning hastily with the dampened cloth.

"_Thank you_," I barely whispered, succumbing, as always, to his commands. "_You did not have to stay_." I knew he had already thought of that, but I yet felt it was only fair to point it out.

He read my near-silent words with ease, and a warm, rare, genuine smile spread over his face, his gray eyes glazing with atypical affection. The fire flickered a pleasant gold over half of his usually white face; the right half contrasted in cold, dark shadow of the black night. My mind was only half present, but I thought the two distinct appearances seemed fitting for him — one part of him dark and solemn, aloof and rational, as cool and indifferent as a stone; yet, there was another part, rarer to be shown but just as dominant as the first. At that moment, in my swiftly-fading mind, I could not quite conjure suitable words to describe this half of his good soul. I could only count myself lucky to have the opportunity to, on occasion, see that more sincere part of the great Sherlock Holmes that contrasts so greatly to his outer façade.

"My dear Watson," said he quietly and openly, "how could I have done any less?"

"_The case_..."

"It is of no consequence, Watson."

Even in my present dullness, the sensation of those words escaping my work-driven friend was stunning; the delightful revelation of what it implied was enough to put my muddled, sickly mind at rest, no tonic needed.

My eyes closed peacefully at last, a contented smile on my face, I'm sure. The afghan, which had been twisted around my legs during my restless attempts to slumber, was straightened and pulled around my shoulders, and a moment later a soft pillow appeared out of nowhere and cushioned my head.

The last thing I remember before Morpheus finally took me was the feel of my dear friend's hand upon my shoulder, his unnaturally soft voice telling me to rest easy, that all was well.

**To be continued...**

_Right. Well, just one more short summary section to go for this one...  
Any of my lovely Holmesians/Sherlockians still remember me after all this time? *giggles*_


	15. Fever, Part 3

_This update came much quicker than even _I_ thought it would. This is the last part of this fic, but there are more to come soon. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. I'm so thrilled you all still remember me and this collection of stories!_

********

**Fever  
****Part Three**

Three mornings later, I awoke in my own bed to find my fever at last gone. Even greater a comfort was the knowledge that my friend Sherlock Holmes was not, but that he sat in a worn chair at my bedside, his long legs folded against his chest and his head resting limply against the side of the chair.

As I arose from my seat to rest of one my blankets over his obviously chilled form, I could not help but smile to myself.

The fever was so temporary a thing, but the memory of my new friend resting quietly across from me, when he could so easily have been in the midst of some intriguing and stimulating case, was one I should not soon forget.

It was in that enlightening, if seemingly trivial, moment — one of many over the years of intimate companionship — that the reality assaulted me that there was something more to Sherlock Holmes than he claimed in word and action. It was something buried deep down, perhaps so deep that his great, logical brain neglected to acknowledge its existence, but it was, indeed, there.

Like a fever, when kindled, it rose and overtook him, empowering even his mind; it was what caused him to neglect the part of him that declared he and his desires were to come first. When this fever came over him, the symptoms were not chills or coughs, but kindness and self-denial, such that caused him to choose to remain at Baker Street and care for a friend, so unselfish and compassionate a deed.

I have since that time experienced instances as the above, some more evident than others, and yet this one stands out in my mind now as one of the most notable. It was then, as I stood watching my clearly spent friend in the early morning light, that I knew we would together become unshakeable.

Should he have heard my sincere, heartfelt thoughts of that day, he would surely have scoffed and pronounced me "incurably romantic." I have no doubts that he would have been correct in his prognosis.

It had only been a few short months since our move into the Baker Street lodgings, yet this projection of mine refused to waver; it had been quite a length of time since I had put my faith into anything so absolutely. I realize it seems almost absurd that I held such high expectations for our friendship so early after our initial meeting, given the anti-social and solitary inclinations of the young Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

However, as I sit here now on this dim Monday afternoon, watching him doze under a blanket in a different yet somehow familiar armchair, I know beyond all doubt that I was correct. Not even the regrettably great distance between my London home and a certain simple cottage five miles from Eastborne has had the power to vanquish the connection that has lasted us all these years.

Moreover, just as I recognized so many years ago, the life we have unconsciously chosen to live as colleagues and companions has proven that one of us will at all times be present to guard the other from all evils that come, no matter how great or small. The force that caused him to voluntarily remain with me that day is the same that has had its effect upon me as well, and it is the reason I give for choosing to extend my week-end visit another day and care for an ill friend.

After all, I profess at knowing better than anyone that a fever is hardly overly much to endure, when one has the knowledge that he has not been left alone, but that a friend considers him enough to neglect his own self and stay beside him.

********

**End**

* * *

_"He has, for many years, lived in a small farm upon the downs five miles from Eastborne..."_ - Watson on Holmes, preface of _His Last Bow  
"An occasional week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him."_ - Holmes on Watson, _The Adventure of the Lion's Mane_  
I'm sure you all know where Watson is while writing the above story, but I wanted to be sure, so you don't get confused.


	16. Distance

__

This may possibly be the shortest thing I've ever written. Weird that it's in a group of ficlets...

**Distance**

Sherlock Holmes had never been one to appreciate or even tolerate a physical touch from anyone. Even as a child of three, he never wished to be held in his mother's arms or carried to bed by his father, and as he grew older, Mycroft could be sure that revenge was most effective in the constricted clutching of his younger brother's arm. As an adult, the embrace of a grateful female client only succeeded to be one of the few things that flustered him, and the jovial pat on the back from a Scotland Yard inspector made his eyes narrow. The shake of a fellowman's hand was a common greeting, and so he allowed it without a great deal of argument, but aside from this he preferred to keep his polite distance from others.

In light of this, Mycroft Holmes found it both exceedingly out of the ordinary and oddly amusing when Doctor Watson leaned close against Sherlock's shoulder for a better look into the busy street below his office at the Diogenes, and his brother never so much as blinked at the contact.

* * *

_Forgot to mention - this is set toward the beginning of Granada's _The Greek Interpreter_, for those of you who didn't guess._


End file.
